


the master class in fuck-ups

by viviandarkbloom



Category: Last Tango In Halifax
Genre: F/F, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-07 22:37:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11068524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viviandarkbloom/pseuds/viviandarkbloom
Summary: This is another tumblr prompt: Things you said that I wish you hadn't.Also post-series 4.





	the master class in fuck-ups

**Author's Note:**

> This is another tumblr prompt: Things you said that I wish you hadn't. 
> 
> Also post-series 4.

Perhaps it was too good to last. Or not good enough. Either way it doesn’t matter, Gillian thinks—she was bound to fuck it up one way or another.

She’s paced back and forth on the path from the barn to the house about twenty times this morning while the judicious sky spat rain at her, and when the rain stopped and she got bored with the path she circled the perimeter of the barn as if she were a soldier on night patrol, seeing monsters and enemies in every twitching stalk of grass, in the hulking shuffle of bored sheep, in the reflection of every mud puddle. Phantoms all. Who she really fears is in the house making tea and preparing lunch—Caroline, who had arrived earlier this morning. They are to spend a rare day together without family about in pursuit of leisurely eating, drinking, talking, and—under what currently passes for normal circumstances between them these days—shagging.

This occasional falling-into-bed-or-whatever’s-convenient started nearly four months ago, during a propitious weekend when children were with their respective fathers, parents were on a “theatrical retreat”—whatever the fuck that had meant, Gillian couldn’t be bothered to figure out because while her father was telling her about it she was too busy watching Caroline’s graceful, sensual stretch as she rose from the dinner table—and beautiful young shag buddies were finally out of the picture because apparently Olga’s considerable patience with the likes of Caroline had finally been exhausted. It seemed inevitable that years of mixed signals and missed opportunities, several bottles of wine, a perpetually chilly house, and an extremely boring nature documentary on sea sponges would yield over the following months an embarrassment of intimate riches:  two blissful nights in Caroline’s bed, clandestine snogging in motor vehicles, frantic awkward dry humping on couches, innocuous-looking sleepovers that provided cover for sneaking out of master bedrooms at dawn, and dozy looks across dining room tables.

Caroline seemed more than content with the state of affairs and Gillian thought it was grand too, if only because it played to her strengths. She excelled at sneaking around; indeed, if stealthy romantic rendezvouses had been a subject at school, she would have had a first every time. But when it came to fucking it all up, she was no mere student: She was a master at the craft. In this fictitious academia she would be the teacher, the mentor, the wizened professor—well, by now she would be Dean of Twatbrain College, sniffing her disdainful, gin-addled way through master classes with aspirant fuck-up students, casually dispensing gems of self-sabotage: _If you ever have the opportunity to sleep with the ex of someone you’re infatuated with, by all means, carpe diem, carpe tosser._

The most important lesson, of course, she would save for last: _Nah, see, when you’ve got it going on with a wonderful, kind, beautiful, intelligent person who’s made it pretty clear she’s in no way, shape, or form prepared for anything remotely serious relationship-wise, you need to drink about four Jagerbombs, grab your shit mobile, and after midnight call her on some ridiculous pretext and then casually let drop that you love her._

As perfectly executed last night. She doesn’t even remember what she had been rambling on about, or how the conversation turned in such a way that she started talking about feelings—of all the horrible fucking things to talk about, even sober—but drowsily and drunkenly the dreaded _I love you_ spilled out of her mouth and into the velvety night, where it was greeted with digital silence. Then she remembers going into a panic and babbling about cake. Caroline eagerly took up the subject matter, recalling a perfect chocolate cake her mother made for her sixteenth birthday and this was, quite possibly, the nicest thing she’d ever said about Celia. This morning Gillian woke with despair lining her mouth like cracked leather and an unsurprising urge for the perfect seven-layer cake she’d had at a tea shop the other week while lunching with Gary.

Arriving later this morning Caroline had been awkwardly polite, a throwback to when they first met and were, for the sake of their parents, desperately trying not to eviscerate one another with sarcastic barbs, sneering commentary, and furious eye rolls.  Gillian wasn’t certain why she had even bothered coming, but while Caroline bustled about in the kitchen as if she actually owned it and excelled at small talk, Gillian reverted to numpty mode, stammered an excuse—actually, it was a melodramatic declaration of _the sheep need me_!—and bolted for the sanctuary of the barn.

And that is where matters stand: she, pacing around outside like a hungry wolf—indeed, it is a sad commentary on the state of things when the shepherdess  sees herself as a wolf—and Caroline inside and reigning over her bloody kitchen.  But when she’s completed another lap around the barn she comes out toward the house and sees Caroline standing at the edge of the stone wall, the very same place where they’ve sat dozens of times talking, where they first spoke honestly and kindly to one another. She looks like a painting, with her bold stance and blonde hair whipping defiantly against the sickly white and slate gray of the sky and land: woman versus valley.

Summoning a sliver of courage, Gillian sucks in a lungful of air and walks over.

At the sound of her trundling Caroline breaks communion with the land and turns around, smiling inscrutably in a manner that, Gillian knows, is the result of ruthless self-training for so many years.  “Tea’s ready. Came out to get you, but I couldn’t find you.”

“Sorry. Just, ah—checking on things.”  Gillian shuffles, kicks at a stone that she’s been kicking at and apologizing to for as long as she’s owned the farm. _Sorry, stone._

Then Caroline softens slowly, almost imperceptibly, so that when she smiles again—ruefully, this time—Gillian once again feels the drunken lovestruck fool she was last night and quickly looks away.

“I’m the one who should be saying sorry,” Caroline says as she squints at the horizon.  “I’m sorry I was weird last night about the—the thing you said.”

“The thing,” Gillian echoes.

“Yeah, the thing.”

“You mean, the, uh, oh—” Gillian groans and her voice leaps up into a register of frustration typically reserved for the male of the species. “Don’t make me say it again.”

Mischievous, Caroline says, “You don’t want to say it again?”

“Well, no, I mean—I, I m-meant it, but it makes you uncomfortable—”

Caroline interrupts gently. “It doesn’t. But that isn’t the thing I’m talking about. Because I love you too—it was just what you said before that—”

Gillian blinks wildly, thinks she has misheard, thinks the stone precipice wobbles like pudding under her feet. “Come again?” She shakes her head vigorously. “Wait, wait. What—what did I say before that?”

It takes a moment for Caroline to summon it up; she has to close her eyes for several seconds and then stare out at the landscape again. “You said, ‘I would die for you.’”

“Oh.” Regrettably it all comes back to Gillian now, that great river of drunken hyperbole leading up to the simple, salient statement of fact: _You know you are very important to me, right? I would do anything for you, I would fight every battle for you, I would die for you._

“It unsettled me a little—well, a lot. You know? Just the thought of losing someone important again. Just like that. Like—you know. I couldn’t bear the thought of it.”

Speechless and beyond mortified, Gillian now wishes the wall would collapse and the valley consume her whole. Fearing tears, she pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Hey.” Caroline steps closer, touches her arm, and pulls her into a hug. “Don’t be upset—there’s nothing to be upset about. It’s all right. You said nothing wrong.  I know it’s just a figure of speech. And I was thinking about it on the drive over and realized I was looking for anything to focus on, to pick at other than what you were actually saying. You understand? I’m not ready for any sort of big, grand—romance or relationship or whatever right now, but I do love you and you make me happy, what we have together makes me happy.”

“Oh.” Gillian pulls back and stares at her. “Really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

This affirmation comes so casually and confidently that Gillian’s chest tightens and she struggles to breathe properly. She paces in a tight circle and, hoping to catch a breath, bends over a little. Fucking figures, she thinks _: I’ve inherited my father’s weak heart and now I’m going to have a heart attack and die after she says she loves me and after I said the stupid thing and now she will be completely traumatized for life, now there’s epic fucking up for you, I have reached the next level._

“Are you hyperventilating?” Caroline asks unhelpfully.

She’s staring at dirt and pebbles and Caroline’s rather expensive and shiny new hiking boots. Considering that the only place Caroline hikes to is Sainsbury’s, it seems unnecessarily twatty.  “Reckon that’s the correct term for it, yeah,” she manages to say between a bout of heavy, laborious breathing.

“I’m not going to have to take you to A&E, am I? I’ve got coq au vin in your wretched oven—if I don’t watch it carefully it’ll burn.”

“Coq au vin?” Gillian wheezes.  “I’m not—the bloody queen, why would you make s-something fancy—you are so f-f—ridiculous.”

“Gosh, I’m _so_ sorry for trying to do something nice for you, and _please_ stop hyperventilating.”

Gillian straightens and, finally, catches her breath. “Shit, wish you hadn’t said all that. Think I need a lie-down. Or a glass of wine.”

“It’s not even noon.”

“All right, all right, just some whiskey in my tea then, I’ll be right as rain.”

“That’s _not_ any better.”

Gillian rolls her eyes. “Aw, fuck off and stop nagging me, woman!” she shouts while stomping toward the house, leaving Caroline alone to confront the Yorkshire panorama.

Indeed, Caroline folds her arms and glares at the stubbornly gray sky and hills, which are as immutable, infuriating, and starkly beautiful as that goddamn woman who is still muttering and trudging up the muddy pathway.

“Oh, for fuck’s sakes.” She sighs and heads to the house.  There’s a coq au vin that needs tending.

 


End file.
